Queen Kelley

On Thursday, my Butterfly crossed yet another threshold away from toddlerhood: she started her first dance class. Each week, she will enjoy a one-hour ballet/tap lesson with Miss Becky, buoyed from time to time by parent nights when we can come and see her progress, and culminating in the May recital. 

Preparation for this milestone began a few weeks ago, when I took her to the studio’s open house to register and purchase her practice leotard. We entered the building and she pulled her usual stunt of clinging to me and hiding behind my legs. Fortunately, an angel of a lady named Melanie got down to her level and convinced her to take a look at the dance floor and try on a “butter”-colored outfit. The outfit did it. As soon as we left the dressing room, Butterfly began to twirl and flutter before the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Well, actually, it was more like running and stomping, complete with little Ladybug tagging along behind. I’m sure the other dancers and parents were relieved when I left with my noisy, overexcited children.

Then, one weekend Nana (AKA the Queen Mother) took Butterfly shoe shopping at a store filled with tutus and dance bags. Butterfly approved of the ballet shoes, but she was completely thrilled with the tap shoes, especially when the salesgirl led her to a square of hardwood floor and let her try them out. Needless to say, she could have remained there for the afternoon, slapping her feet on the wood in delight. Only Nana’s offer to let her pick out a bag drew her away. Another salesgirl approached us then, and we learned that she was the famed Miss Becky, Butterfly’s dance teacher and a TEENAGER. These days, any girl older than age eight draws my daughter like a magnet, especially a teenager. Butterfly was bashful, but I could see the stars in her eyes.

On Thursday, we arrived along with several other moms who also had little girls in impossibly tiny leotards. Once again, Butterfly hid behind me for a few moments, but soon, after another child skipped around and introduced herself, she ventured out a bit. When Miss Becky asked her group to line up at the door to the dance floor, Butterfly said, “Mommy, you have to come with me.” Fearing a mild meltdown, I gently told her that I couldn’t go to dance class with her. To my surprise, she shrugged and walked over to the line of girls.

Moments later she sat with fellow class members on the dance floor, just as Miss Becky asked her to do. I stepped over to the doorway, Ladybug on my hip, and peeked in unseen. There was my big girl, chatting easily with the others, telling them about her good friend who would soon be there to take the class too. She was smiling, sitting comfortably on her knees, her yellow skirt bunched up around her thighs, pink ballet shoes snug on her feet. Without my help, without my supervision, she began to make friends.

It was a moment that tugged at this mother’s heart. I’m not overly sappy about my children. I know they have to grow up, and I’ve welcomed each milestone with joy and tried not to get too bogged down in nostalgia for the fleeting days. Seeing Butterfly there, though, made me think about the number of times she’ll be in a situation like this—surrounded by other children, some who may end up liking her and some who may not care at all for her. She’ll try to make friends and may get rejected; she’ll connect with someone and begin a deep friendship; she’ll reject some who wish to befriend her. She’ll try new things without her mother standing right there watching over her. She’ll have to think of what to say and how to say it, what to do and how to do it. I’m so glad for her and proud of her, but at the same time my heart aches for her. I want so much for her to be happy. I suppose we all want that for the ones we love. And part of loving them is letting them go out and live life away from us. I’m betting it makes their return all the sweeter.

It’s nice for Ladybug to have a big sister to watch. Not only has Butterfly taught her to sing the alphabet song and Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star in various combinations, but she’s also attracted her sister to toys above Ladybug’s age range, like the princess dolls and their wardrobe. Her most recent mimic of Butterfly happened on Saturday. The four of us were dancing around our den to music, wrestling here and there and generally having a giggling good time. Suddenly, Ladybug walked up to me and said, “Hand.” I reached for her soft little fingers and stood up, letting her lead me toward the kitchen. “Potty,” she said as we walked. “Do you need to go potty?” I asked, incredulously. “Yes!” she exclaimed. She led me past the kitchen table and down the short hallway to the half-bath. In we went, where I went through the arduous task of unsnapping her onesie and pulling off her already-wet diaper. Then I lifted her onto the small, squishy, Dora potty seat and told her what a big girl she was. Almost immediately, she began pushing, and sure enough, she went tee-tee on the potty! She looked completely proud and pleased with herself. Every day since, she’s at least mentioned the potty and sat on it, although her diaper has been wet every time and nothing more has actually entered the toilet bowl. At 17 months, she’s certainly not ready to control that function, but her interest and excitement are adorable to see.

A friend of mine recently sent an email asking about my writing process and wondering if I had advice to offer. Her request flattered me, mostly because I’m still, just like her, sort of an aspiring writer—meaning I have written many pieces, but I have yet to submit one for publication. I, unlike most published writers, haven’t yet amassed my required pile of rejection letters. One day, I hope to.

I also appreciated Alana’s email because it got me thinking about this hobby/talent/delight/aspiration of mine, one that has lured me since I wrote my first story in kindergarten. What, indeed, is my personal process for writing? What advice might I give to someone else in the boat with me, paddling these waters that alternate between exhilarating and desolate?

After giving her questions much thought, I learned this about my process: 

1. I prefer to write my stories without knowing exactly where they’re headed, or what the characters may do, or even what characters may appear. I find that these things flow naturally (or, sometimes, are extracted painfully from my brain) as the story progresses.

2. Because of my freewheeling approach, I often end up with a scattering of scenes that beg to be tied together. My writing mentor Kevin calls this tie the “theme,” and he says it’s essential for making a collection of scenes into a readable work of fiction.

3. At a certain point, probably when my group of scenes begins to feel more disheveled than ordered, I find I need to organize in some way. This may necessitate making an outline of the story’s parts, which I detest but which is actually helpful.

4. My packed schedule demands that I set aside specific time for writing, and the best way I’ve found to do this is to meet with my writer friends several times a month for discussion and, of course, writing.

5. The end of my process—the editing, the submitting, the editing again, the submitting again—will have to wait until I actually complete a manuscript. I’ll keep you posted.

Here is the best writing advice I’ve gathered from my years of interest in the craft:

1. The best writers probably read more than they write, at least initially. Know your audience, and know what is being marketed to them.

2. Try to show more than you tell. Rather than always stating character traits directly, reveal them during dialogue or other actions that move the story forward.

3. Write what you know, but don’t be afraid to change it or stretch it. The key is remembering that, no matter how different or fascinating your world and characters are, you must make them believable enough to matter to your readers.

4. Know the thematic goal for your work.

5. Try to find a group of writers, and spend time together. Collective creative energy provides great motivation to keep going.

6. When an idea/scene/segment of dialogue/etc. comes to you, write it down! Make a habit of recording your ideas. 

Thanks, Alana, for your questions. They made me think intently about why and how I write.

Of all household tasks, the one I despise the most is actually the most essential: cooking. I’ve tried all the shortcuts and helpful hints and busy-mom advice. In the kitchen, a white particle-board shelf holds a daunting stack of magazines designed to offer simple weeknight recipes with only a few ingredients (Simple and Delicious and Cooking Light among them). Each week via email, I receive a newsletter from Aviva Goldfarb’s Six O’Clock Scramble, also created to offer easy, healthy recipes for busy cooks. A folder on my computer desktop contains a document titled “favorite recipes,” where I’ve typed out the tried-and-true instructions for meals my family actually likes. Last count? Maybe 20 meals. That sounds like a lot, until you’ve eaten nacho chicken and cheeseburger rollup twice in the span of two weeks and would really like something new on your plate.

I even choose five or six recipes every two weeks, list the dishes in a “menu,” type out the ingredients needed, and take a shopping trip to acquire everything necessary to make the meals. This way, there’s always something I can cook. 

I make do with these strategies. The family eats. We survive on what is sometimes less-than-healthy fare. Every now and then, I attempt something fresh, which usually gets quietly rejected. Of course, my testers aren’t exactly those of mature palettes. I have a 3 1/2-year-old who balks at the sight of any vegetable (despite my careful attempts to vary her diet and cast veggies in a positive light), a 17-month-old who takes one look at meat and says, “No,” and a dear husband whose food groups are meat, cheese, and potatoes. Add me, someone who thinks a meal should have a small amount of meat and carbs coupled with a hearty serving of brightly colored veggies, and you’ve got a family who’s difficult to please all at once, to say the least.

Bitterness is not my cup of tea, and resentment is not a sweet cookie, but I have to admit I have my share of both a few times a week in relation to my unwanted job as the family cook. Truly, preparing food is simply not something I enjoy, regardless of how easy it is. Even so, with the goal of keeping us somewhat fit and slightly healthy, I’ll keep struggling on. Maybe one day I’ll actually enjoy this requirement of household life. If I don’t, at least I’ll make sure we only eat fast food a couple of times a week. (:

Grrr. Just when I was getting excited about the latest Harry Potter movie (if you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m a shameless fan), the studio goes and changes the release date from this November to next July. That’s right; we have to wait nearly a whole year for the release of this movie. Never mind that I got to see the totally enticing short trailer on the big screen last weekend when it aired before Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2 (a super chick flick, by the way). Never mind that it’s been more than a year since the final book release for the series. Never mind that Monica and I were already talking about planning our next Potter party to celebrate the film. An article on The Leaky Cauldron website explained the rubbish reasoning behind the change:

The press release says the reason for the move was two-fold: First, the studio says summer releases are better for “family tentpole” events, and second, they are still feeling the aftereffects of the writers’ strike and need the time to make sure the film reaches the widest audience possible.

Translation? “We want to milk this cash cow for all she’s worth!!!” And of course, who can blame them? They’re in the business to make millions, if not billions, of dollars, and J. K. Rowling’s imagination has significantly padded their wallets. They know postponing this film will in no way decrease the number of viewers. Admittedly, it might even increase that number.

Even so, grrr. It’s frustrating to have my anticipation stymied like this. All who are sympathetic to my grumbling, please comment and make me feel better.

After many weeks of heat-heavy, sun-filled days where chances of afternoon thunderstorms dissipated into humid nights, fat clouds moved over Central Georgia yesterday evening and let loose. During the night, every time I awakened, it seemed the air conditioner was running. Sometimes it was the air; sometimes it was rain. This morning our azaleas, which have spent weeks in mourning with their leaves hanging limp and soft, have perked up for a new day. (And would probably really appreciate it if we’d water them regularly.) Our crunchy, yellowed grass is now rich and green and delightfully wet. The tarp covering the sandbox sinks under the weight of water. The world looks fresh and clean, and I imagine that if I were to walk outside right now, it would smell that way too, and I’d feel the water droplets on my face, cooling and refreshing in these dog days of summer. We may tailspin back into a slight drought after today, but it is certainly good to see, hear, feel, and smell the rain again.

I just finished watching Larry King Live, a show I never usually watch on a station I didn’t even realize we got through basic cable. I’m sure that, being such a long-running show masterminded by a well-known interviewer, it frequently offers intriguing topics and features intriguing people. Even so, it’s simply not on my “to-watch” list (which, admittedly, is quite small these days).

Tonight, though, Steven Curtis Chapman, his wife Mary Beth, and their three biological children, Emily, Caleb, and Will Franklin, appeared on the show and endured a Larry King-style interview about the death of their daughter and sister Maria Sue. Translation: Larry asked each of them questions no one should ever have to answer about subjects no decent person ever approaches.

And you know what? The incredible, take-your-breath-away pain the Chapman family still feels was written all over their faces. And, paradoxically, so was their unwavering hope in this being we call God, the one who allows evil and suffering and tragedy for who knows why. Some of them admitted their anger, doubts, and questions toward God. All of them affirmed their belief that little Maria is with Jesus right now. They each exhibited great trust that they will pull through these worst of days, but they acknowledged that their loss is one that will walk with them for a lifetime.

I watched these same five people on Good Morning America yesterday morning. Robin Roberts, their interviewer for that segment, was infinitely more caring and sensitive than Mr. King. However, as many viewers pointed out on Jim Houser’s blog, it was obvious that SCC and MB’s words had been edited to steer clear of the words “God” and “Jesus” in favor of “faith.” It worked for me, as I’m sure it did for thousands who watched the interview. Tonight, though, there was no censoring of live TV. Tonight it was obvious where the Chapman family places their faith. Ironic, isn’t it, that the Truth for this family would be proclaimed so boldly in response to the pointed questions of a man hardened by years of interviews.

This family, in the depths of the greatest grief I can personally imagine, managed to minister to me. They, like others whose journeys I’ve followed, have shown once again that it is possible to survive even the most heartbreaking losses with HOPE.

I’ll close with the new verse Steven added to his already touching song “Yours,” from his new album Live in this Moment:

I’ve walked the valley of death’s shadow
So deep and dark that I could barely breathe
I’ve had to let go of more than I could bear
And questioned everything that I believe
But still even here 
in this great darkness
A comfort and hope come breaking through
As I can say in life or death
God we belong to you.

As previously established on this blog, I’m no runner. One of my husband’s cousins is a runner, and she’s so dedicated she’s still running in her third trimester of pregnancy. She has my complete admiration, as by the time I entered my third trimester, I was struggling to walk along the flat roads around my neighborhood.

I’m starting to think I know some things about marathons, though (at least metaphorically). I’ve been in one for a few weeks now—ever since I agreed with Kevin that I could produce a complete first draft of my novel by Christmas. There’s the finish line, draped with colored lights and wreaths and bows, with carols playing in the background, and here I am, miles back and trying to keep a steady pace.

Some moments I write at a sprint, pounding the keys with my fingers the way a runner pounds pavement with feet. These moments happen most often when I’m in the company of my fellow writers. Maybe, when we all move alongside each other, our combined creative energy powers us along. Maybe we all need that particular window of time when we dedicate ourselves solely to talking about our work and then to actual, real-live writing.

Unfortunately, I spend many more moments bent at the waist, panting and sweating from the effort of trying to maneuver my packed schedule in order to fit the novel in somewhere. The finish line is up ahead, but there are days when I simply can’t write. I make no progress toward the goal.

How grateful I am that, even when most of my days the novel sits at the back of my mind, my writer friends continue to gather. They keep coming back to let me catch up, week after week. They encourage me, stretch my possibilities, and inspire me with their own creative endeavors.

Thanks, friends.

Observing Butterfly’s love of changing her Disney princess dolls from one outfit to another, despite the fact that she has few outfits yet, I decided to look for another medium. She’s not yet four, and her fingers still have a bit of that toddler stubbiness left to them. Even so, she’s getting pretty dexterous, so I thought paper dolls might be fun for her. We perused the sparse children’s book area at our nearby Wal-Mart since it was the closest location. After searching through the numerous coloring books, which she rarely uses anymore, I spotted a thick book that boasted four dolls and dozens of outfits. It lived up to those claims.

Once Ladybug settled down for her afternoon nap, a ridiculously excited Butterfly and an at least mildly excited Mama sat on the den floor and began punching out the dolls and their clothing. As you can see from the photo, these are not your standard cherub-like little girl dolls, nor are they old-fashioned figures from some time long ago. Instead, they’re hip, they’re diverse, and they’ve got a wardrobe to die for. These Fairy Princesses have the colorful names Crystal, Ruby, Sparkle, and Jade. Their outfits range from outlandish—hair in various bright hues, wings, and wands—to royal—lavish dresses, shoes, and polished hairstyles. Both of us have enjoyed dressing the fragile dolls, seeing what styles we can devise from the selections. My only complaint? That they’re fragile, of course. Already we’re losing clothing tabs, bending the big heads at their tiny necks, and struggling to keep the stands intact for their wobbly wearers. Even so, the six bucks I shelled out for the entire set has been worth it for Butterfly’s delight. A small price to pay indeed for an hour of creative fun.